He leaned closer, his voice dropping. “I’m not trying to be cute.”
“Well, you failed.”
His eyes narrowed, but he was smiling now, too. “You lucky we in public.”
“Or what?”
“Or I’d show you what else I’m good at.”
“Kyrie.”
“What?” He sat back like he hadn’t said anything wrong. “You asked.”
I shook my head, still smiling while cleaning my brush.
This wasn’t what I expected when he told me to get dressed, but sitting here with him, watching him pretend he knew what he was doing with paint, made something in me soften.
He didn’t have to bring me here.
He didn’t have to care about the stuff I cared about.
But he did.
And that was the part I couldn’t stop thinking about.
A few minutes later, we left the studio and headed back toward the truck.
The entire time, Kyrie carried his little ugly-ass painting around like it belonged in a museum.
I glanced over at him and shook my head.
“You know ain't nobody hanging that up, right?”
He opened my door and looked offended.
“First of all, watch your mouth.”
A laugh slipped out of me. “I'm serious.”
“Nawl.” He waited until I got inside before shutting the door. “Y'all just don't understand real art.”
“Is that what we calling it?”
“Yep.”
I laughed and buckled my seat belt.
By the time Kyrie climbed in on his side, I was still smiling.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You laughing at me.”
“Maybe a little.”
He sucked his teeth and pulled out of the parking lot.
